Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford— Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord, But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!

Snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots! (Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in his boots?) Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw, But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."

Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, Livin' is a luxury that don't come high; Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow, For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!

Lively on the last turn! Lope'er to the death! (Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.) Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw." Charles Badger Clark.



THE COWBOY'S DANCE SONG

YOU can't expect a cowboy to agitate his shanks In etiquettish manner in aristocratic ranks When he's always been accustomed to shake the heel and toe At the rattling rancher dances where much etiquet don't go. You can bet I set them laughing in quite an excited way, A-giving of their squinters an astonished sort of play, When I happened into Denver and was asked to take a prance In the smooth and easy mazes of a high-toned dance.

When I got among the ladies in their frocks of fleecy white, And the dudes togged out in wrappings that were simply out of sight, Tell you what, I was embarrassed, and somehow I couldn't keep From feeling like a burro in a pretty flock of sheep. Every step I made was awkward and I blushed a fiery red Like the principal adornment of a turkey gobbler's head. The ladies said 'twas seldom that they had had the chance To see an old-time puncher at a high-toned dance.

I cut me out a heifer from a bunch of pretty girls And yanked her to the center to dance the dreamy whirls. She laid her head upon my bosom in a loving sort of way And we drifted into heaven as the band began to play. I could feel my neck a-burning from her nose's breathing heat, And she do-ce-doed around me, half the time upon my feet; She peered up in my blinkers with a soul-dissolving glance Quite conducive to the pleasures of a high-toned dance.

Every nerve just got a-dancing to the music of delight As I hugged the little sagehen uncomfortably tight; But she never made a bellow and the glances of her eyes Seemed to thank me for the pleasure of a genuine surprise. She snuggled up against me in a loving sort of way, And I hugged her all the tighter for her trustifying play,— Tell you what the joys of heaven ain't a cussed circumstance To the hug-a-mania pleasures of a high-toned dance.

When they struck the old cotillion on the music bill of fare, Every bit of devil in me seemed to burst out on a tear. I fetched a cowboy whoop and started in to rag, And cut her with my trotters till the floor began to sag; Swung my pardner till she got sea-sick and rushed for a seat; I balanced to the next one but she dodged me slick and neat.— Tell you what, I shook the creases from my go-to-meeting pants When I put the cowboy trimmings on that high-toned dance. James Barton Adams.



THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL

WAY out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow, Where the cattle are "a-browzin'" and the Spanish ponies grow; Where the Norther "comes a-whistlin'" from beyond the Neutral strip And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as if they had "the Grip"; Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark, And the mocking-birds are singin' to the lovely "medder lark"; Where the 'possum and the badger, and rattle-snakes abound, And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound; Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams; Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call— It was there that I attended "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."

The town was Anson City, old Jones's county seat, Where they raise Polled Angus cattle, and waving whiskered wheat; Where the air is soft and "bammy," an' dry an' full of health, And the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth; Where they print the Texas Western, that Hec. McCann supplies, With news and yarns and stories, of most amazin' size; Where Frank Smith "pulls the badger," on knowin' tender feet, And Democracy's triumphant, and mighty hard to beat; Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap from Lamar, Who "used to be the sheriff, back East, in Paris, sah!" 'Twas there, I say, at Anson, with the lively "Widder Wall," That I went to that reception, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."

The boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles; The ladies—"kinder scatterin'"—had gathered in for miles. And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well, 'Twas got for the occasion at "The Morning Star Hotel." The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine, And a "viol come imported," by stage from Abilene. The room was togged out gorgeous—with mistletoe and shawls, And candles flickered frescoes around the airy walls. The "wimmin folks" looked lovely—the boys looked kinder treed, Till their leader commenced yellin': "Whoa, fellers, let's stampede." The music started sighin' and a-wailin' through the hall, As a kind of introduction to "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball."

The leader was a fellow that came from Swenson's Ranch, They called him "Windy Billy," from "little Dead-man's Branch." His rig was "kinder keerless," big spurs and high-heeled boots; He had the reputation that comes when "fellers shoots." His voice was like the bugle upon the mountain's height; His feet were animated, an' a mighty movin' sight, When he commenced to holler, "Neow, fellers, stake yer pen! Lock horns to all them heifers, an' russle 'em like men. Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing an' let 'em go, Climb the grape vine round 'em—all hands do-ce-do! And Mavericks, jine the round-up—Jest skip her waterfall," Huh! hit wuz gittin' happy, "The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"

The boys were tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat, That old bass viol's music just got there with both feet. That wailin' frisky fiddle, I never shall forget; And Windy kept a singin'—I think I hear him yet— "O Xes, chase your squirrels, an' cut 'em to one side, Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley's bride, Doc. Hollis down the middle, an' twine the ladies' chain, Varn Andrews pen the fillies in big T. Diamond's train. All pull yer freight tergether, neow swallow fork an' change, 'Big Boston' lead the trail herd, through little Pitchfork's range. Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope 'em! Balance all!" Huh! hit wuz gittin' active—"The Cowboys' Christmas Ball!"

The dust riz fast an' furious, we all just galloped round, Till the scenery got so giddy, that Z Bar Dick was downed. We buckled to our partners, an' told 'em to hold on, Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn. Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir 'ee! That whirl at Anson City just takes the cake with me. I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill, Give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by Windy Bill. McAllister ain't nowhere! when Windy leads the show, I've seen 'em both in harness, an' so I sorter know— Oh, Bill, I sha'n't forget yer, and I'll oftentimes recall, That lively-gaited sworray—"The Cowboys' Christmas Ball." Larry Chittenden in "Ranch Verses."



A DANCE AT THE RANCH

FROM every point they gaily come, the broncho's unshod feet Pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat; The tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind— Like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind. The dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones And sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones, Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers, And pour the usual fairy tales into their list'ning ears. Within the "best room" of the ranch the jolly gathered throng Buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song; The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain. The fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of bow, Finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low; Then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret Until their ears are greeted with the warning words, "All set! S'lute yer pardners! Let 'er go! Balance all an' do-ce-do! Swing yer girls an' run away! Right an' left an' gents sashay! Gents to right an' swing or cheat! On to next gal an' repeat! Balance next an' don't be shy! Swing yer pard an' swing 'er high! Bunch the gals an' circle round! Whack yer feet until they bound! Form a basket! Break away! Swing an' kiss an' all git gay! Al'man left an' balance all! Lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall! Swing yer op'sites! Swing agin! Kiss the sagehens if you kin!" An' thus the merry dance went on till morning's struggling light In lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night, And broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies By weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes. The cowboys to the ranges speed to "work" the lowing herds, The girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds, And for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree They had that night at Jackson's ranch down on the Owyhee. Anonymous.



AT A COWBOY DANCE

GIT yo' little sagehens ready; Trot 'em out upon the floor— Line up there, you critters! Steady! Lively, now! One couple more. Shorty, shed that ol' sombrero; Broncho, douse that cigaret; Stop yer cussin', Casimero, 'Fore the ladies. Now, all set:

S'lute yer ladies, all together; Ladies opposite the same; Hit the lumber with yer leather; Balance all an' swing yer dame; Bunch the heifers in the middle; Circle stags an' do-ce-do; Keep a-steppin' to the fiddle; Swing 'em 'round an' off you go.

First four forward. Back to places. Second foller. Shuffle back— Now you've got it down to cases— Swing 'em till their trotters crack. Gents all right a-heel an' toein'; Swing 'em—kiss 'em if yo' kin— On to next an' keep a-goin' Till yo' hit yer pards agin.

Gents to center. Ladies 'round 'em; Form a basket; balance all; Swing yer sweets to where yo' found 'em; All p'mnade around the hall. Balance to yer pards an' trot 'em 'Round the circle double quick; Grab an' squeeze 'em while you've got 'em— Hold 'em to it if they kick.

Ladies, left hand to yer sonnies; Alaman; grand right an' left; Balance all an' swing yer honies— Pick 'em up an' feel their heft. All p'mnade like skeery cattle; Balance all an' swing yer sweets; Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle— Keno! Promenade to seats. James Barton Adams.



THE COWBOYS' BALL

YIP! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle; You an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall! Say "How!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle; Shake yo'r leg lively at the Cowboys' Ball.

Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin'; Everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high; Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin'; Keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye.

Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin' Jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head; Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin', Just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead!

High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers; Real old rally round the dipper and the keg! Uncle Ed's gettin' red—had too many dippers; Better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg!

Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle; Pass him up another for his arm is gettin' slow. Bow down! right in town—and sashay down the middle; Got to keep a-movin' for to see the show!

Yes, mam! Warm, mam? Want to rest a minute? Like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars? All right! Fine night—Dance? There's nothin' in it! That's my pony there, peekin' through the bars.

Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten! Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see; Night's cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin' Like a gent and lady, same as you and me.

Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle; Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all! Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle... But this beats dancin' at the Cowboys' Ball. Henry Herbert Knibbs.



PART III

COWBOY TYPES



DOWN where the Rio Grande ripples— When there's water in its bed; Where no man is ever drunken— All prefer mescal instead; Where no lie is ever uttered— There being nothin' one can trade; Where no marriage vows are broken 'Cause the same are never made.



THE COWBOY

HE wears a big hat and big spurs and all that, And leggins of fancy fringed leather; He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots, And he's happy in all kinds of weather; He's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course, For oh, he can ride like the devil; He is old for his years and he always appears Like a fellow who's lived on the level; He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look Of a man that to fear is a stranger; Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve For his wild life of duty and danger. He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet, And for fashion, oh well! he's not in it; He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its ear At the rate of two-forty a minute; His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West, Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars; Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks, But his knowledge is not got from your scholars; He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal, And he hates and despises a coward; Yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kind Though he'll fight till by death overpowered. Hence I say unto you,—give the cowboy his due And be kind, my friends, to his folly; For he's generous and brave though he may not behave Like your dudes, who are so melancholy. Anonymous.



BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHT

WE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch, 'Tis said—an' we know who 'tis— "Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch, An' uses us in his biz." Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss, An' you'd sure admit that's right, If you happened—an' unbeknown to us— Around, of a Sunday night.

Th' week-day manners is stowed away, Th' jokes an' the card games halts, When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to play A toon—an' it ain't no waltz. It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight, It delves through th' toughest crust, It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight, Till we've got ter sing—er bust!

With pipin' treble the kid starts in, An' Hell! how that kid kin sing! "Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin," He leads, an' the rafters ring; "Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue," We shouts it with force an' vim; "Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"— That's puttin' it up to Him!

We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z, But many a time an' oft When ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me," Our hearts gets kinder soft. An' we makes some promises there an' then Which we keeps—till we goes to bed,— That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' men What ain't no saints, as I said. Percival Combes.



A COWBOY RACE

A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hail When the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail, A long roll of hoofs,—and the earth is a drum! The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!

A rollicking, clattering, battering beat; A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet; A swift-swirling dust-cloud—a mad hurricane Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;

Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun! J. C. Davis.



THE HABIT

I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown; I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone; From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,— For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I, "I'll never wander further till I come to die." But the wind it sorter chuckles, "Why, o' course you will." An' sure enough I does it 'cause I can't keep still.

I've seen a lot o' places where I'd like to stay, But I gets a-feelin' restless an' I'm on my way. I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill, An', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

I've been in rich men's houses an' I've been in jail, But when it's time for leavin' I jes hits the trail. I'm a human bird of passage and the song I trill Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."

The sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear, An' the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear. It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill; For, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. Berton Braley.



A RANGER

HE never made parade of tooth or claw; He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds. Though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw, He was shy of exercisin' it with words. As a circus-ridin' preacher of the law, All his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail; He was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger, And he labored with the sinners of the trail.

Once a Yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad, Then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan, And nobody missed the woman very bad, While they'd just a little rather missed the man. But the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad, And then loped away to bring him back again, For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny border And his business was to hunt for sinful men!

So the trail it led him southward all the day, Through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake, Where the heat had drove the lizards from their play To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake. And the mountains heaved and rippled far away And the desert broiled as on the devil's prong, But he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and level And the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song.

Came the yellow west, and on a far off rise Something black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim, And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyes While he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim. Down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries, Like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark, And the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighter As he set his spurs and rode on through the dark.

Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higher Through the mountains that look into Mexico, And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wire And the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow. Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fire And the canyon walls flung thunder back again, And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbled That his bridle arm had weight enough for ten.

Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slack And he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy, Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation back That convinced the sinner—just above the eye. So the sinner sprawled among the shadows black While the ranger drifted north beneath the moon, Wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddle While the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune.

When the sheriff got up early out of bed, How he stared and vowed his soul a total loss, As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with red That came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse. But "I got 'im" was the most the ranger said And you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale; He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger And he labored with the sinners of the trail. Charles Badger Clark, Jr.



THE INSULT

I'VE swum the Colorado where she runs close down to hell; I've braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne; I've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swine An' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;

I've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath; I've tackled every desert in the land; I've sampled XX whiskey till I couldn't hardly see An' dallied with the quicksands of the Grande;

I've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs; I've been dragged free and fancy by a cow; I've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' Ninth, An' I never lost my temper till right now.

I've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes; I've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail; But I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' mad As when you up and hands me ginger ale. Anonymous.



"THE ROAD TO RUIN"[2]

I WENT into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar, And drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar. The same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to know When we was on the round-up, Tom, some twenty years ago.

The bar-tender is not the same. The one who used to sell Corroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell. This one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low, He looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago.

Old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grin While others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin. Outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woe And wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago.

I asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men; And some was in the poor-house, Tom, and some was in the pen. You know the one you liked the best?—the hang-man laid him low,— Oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago.

You recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,— He used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone. He perished for the James Fitz James, out in the rain and snow,— Yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago.

I visited the old church yard and there I saw the graves Of those who used to drown their woes in old fermented ways. I saw the graves of women thar, lying where the daisies grow, Who wept and died of broken hearts some twenty years ago. Anonymous.

[2] A famous saloon in West Texas carried this unusual sign.



THE OUTLAW

WHEN my loop takes hold on a two-year-old, By the feet or the neck or the horn, He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white, But I'll throw him as sure as you're born. Though the taut rope sing like a banjo string And the latigoes creak and strain, Yet I've got no fear of an outlaw steer And I'll tumble him on the plain.

For a man is a man and a steer is a beast, And the man is the boss of the herd; And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least, Must come down when he says the word.

When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse And my spurs clinch into his hide, He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, But wherever he goes I'll ride. Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top, Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel Till he's happy to own he's broke.

For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute, And the hawse may be prince of his clan, But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot And own that his boss is the man.

When the devil at rest underneath my vest Gets up and begins to paw, And my hot tongue strains at its bridle-reins, Then I tackle the real outlaw; When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild, And my temper has fractious growed, If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck, Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.

For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast— He kin brag till he makes you deaf, But the one, lone brute, from the West to the East, That he kaint quite break, is himse'f. Charles B. Clark, Jr.



THE DESERT

'TWAS the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul, As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky, The tale of the Upland Rider's fate while I dug in the water hole For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry!

"He came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell; And he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done. He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of hell, Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop—just one."

"His name?" I asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin: "His name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside; Last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin, And I watched his face as he spelled it out—laughed as I laughed, and died.

"And thus," said the lean coyote, "his need is the hungry's feast, And mine." I fumbled and pulled my gun—emptied it wild and fast, But one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast; There lay the shape of the Liar, dead! 'Twas I that should laugh the last.

Laugh? Nay, now I would write my name as the Upland Rider wrote; Write? What need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line I saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float Into a mist as the world grew dark; and I knew that the name was mine.

Dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain; Hands that proffered a brimming cup—empty, ere I could take; Then the burst of a thunder-head—rain! It was rude, fierce rain! Blindly down to the hole I crept, shivering, drenched, awake!

Dawn—and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame, As stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that I thought was dead; But never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider's name; Just a rain-washed track and an empty gun—and the old home trail ahead. Henry Herbert Knibbs.



WHISKEY BILL,—A FRAGMENT

A-DOWN the road and gun in hand Comes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill; A-lookin' for some place to land Comes Whiskey Bill. An' everybody'd like to be Ten miles away behind a tree When on his joyous, aching spree Starts Whiskey Bill.

The times have changed since you made love, O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill! The happy sun grinned up above At Whiskey Bill. And down the middle of the street The sheriff comes on toe and feet A-wishin' for one fretful peek At Whiskey Bill.

The cows go grazing o'er the lea,— Poor Whiskey Bill! Poor Whiskey Bill! An' aching thoughts pour in on me Of Whiskey Bill. The sheriff up and found his stride; Bill's soul went shootin' down the slide,— How are things on the Great Divide, O Whiskey Bill? Anonymous.



DENVER JIM

"SAY, fellers, that ornery thief must be nigh us, For I jist saw him across this way to the right; Ah, there he is now right under that burr-oak As fearless and cool as if waitin' all night. Well, come on, but jist get every shooter all ready Fur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight; The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnic An' that limb hangin' over him stands about right.

"Say, stranger, good mornin'. Why, dog blast my lasso, boys, If it ain't Denver Jim that's corralled here at last. Right aside for the jilly. Well, Jim, we are searchin' All night for a couple about of your cast. An' seein' yer enter this openin' so charmin' We thought perhaps yer might give us the trail. Haven't seen anything that would answer description? What a nerve that chap has, but it will not avail.

"Want to trade hosses fur the one I am stridin'! Will you give me five hundred betwixt fur the boot? Say, Jim, that air gold is the strongest temptation An' many a man would say take it and scoot. But we don't belong to that denomination; You have got to the end of your rope, Denver Jim. In ten minutes more we'll be crossin' the prairie, An' you will be hangin' there right from that limb.

"Have you got any speakin' why the sentence ain't proper? Here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask. Ar' not dry? Well, I am, an' will drink ter yer, pard, An' wish that this court will not bungle this task. There, the old lasso circles your neck like a fixture; Here, boys, take the line an' wait fer the word; I am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under; Fer yer don't meet yer fate like the low, common herd.

"What's that? So yer want me to answer a letter,— Well, give it to me till I make it all right, A moment or two will be only good manners, The judicious acts of this court will be white. 'Long Point, Arkansas, the thirteenth of August, My dearest son James, somewhere out in the West, For long, weary months I've been waiting for tidings Since your last loving letter came eastward to bless.

"'God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money, Remembering your mother when sorely in need. May the angels from heaven now guard you from danger And happiness follow your generous deed. How I long so to see you come into the doorway, As you used to, of old, when weary, to rest. May the days be but few when again I can greet you, My comfort and staff, is your mother's request.'

"Say, pard, here's your letter. I'm not good at writin', I think you'd do better to answer them lines; An' fer fear I might want it I'll take off that lasso, An' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines. An' Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell her That a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the day When her boy could come eastward to stay with her always. Come boys, up and mount and to Denver away."

O'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor, The dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright, As the tenderest memories came like a blessing From the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light. Not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning, Yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned; For higher than law is the love of a mother,— It reversed the decision,—the court was adjourned. Sherman D. Richardson.



THE VIGILANTES

WE are the whirlwinds that winnow the West— We scatter the wicked like straw! We are the Nemeses, never at rest— We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!

Moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast, Sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear, A halt, a swift parley, a pause—then at last A stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheer Against the blue steel of the sky; ghastly white Every on-looking face. Men, our duty was clear; Yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night!

Ours is a service brute-hateful and grim; Little we love the wild task that we seek; Are they dainty to deal with—the fear-rigid limb, The curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek? Nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath; God made us strong to avenge Him the weak— To dispense his sure wages of sin—which is death.

We stand for our duty: while wrong works its will, Our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide; Retribution shall prove that the just liveth still, And its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide, That safety and honor may tread in our path; The vengeance of Heaven shall speed at our side, As we follow unwearied our mission of wrath.

We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West— We scatter the wicked like straw! We are the Nemeses, never at rest— We are Justice, and Right, and the Law! Margaret Ashmun.



THE BANDIT'S GRAVE

'MID lava rock and glaring sand, 'Neath the desert's brassy skies, Bound in the silent chains of death A border bandit lies. The poppy waves her golden glow Above the lowly mound; The cactus stands with lances drawn,— A martial guard around.

His dreams are free from guile or greed, Or foray's wild alarms. No fears creep in to break his rest In the desert's scorching arms. He sleeps in peace beside the trail, Where the twilight shadows play, Though they watch each night for his return A thousand miles away.

From the mesquite groves a night bird calls When the western skies grow red; The sand storm sings his deadly song Above the sleeper's head. His steed has wandered to the hills And helpless are his hands, Yet peons curse his memory Across the shifting sands.

The desert cricket tunes his pipes When the half-grown moon shines dim; The sage thrush trills her evening song— But what are they to him? A rude-built cross beside the trail That follows to the west Casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow Across the sleeper's breast.

A lone coyote comes by night And sits beside his bed, Sobbing the midnight hours away With gaunt, up-lifted head. The lizard trails his aimless way Across the lonely mound, When the star-guards of the desert Their pickets post around.

The winter snows will heap their drifts Among the leafless sage; The pallid hosts of the blizzard Will lift their voice in rage; The gentle rains of early spring Will woo the flowers to bloom, And scatter their fleeting incense O'er the border bandit's tomb. Charles Pitt.



THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL

SEE, stretching yonder o'er that low divide Which parts the falling rain,—the eastern slope Sends down its waters to the southern sea Through Double Mountain's winding length of stream; The western side spreads out into a plain, Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leagues At last into the rushing Rio Grande,— See, faintly showing on that distant ridge, The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest, Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral, The dim reminders of the olden times, The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid, The hunt of buffalo and antelope; The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers; The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night; The stampede and the wild ride through the storm; The call of California's golden flood; The impulse of the Saxon's "Westward Ho" Which set our fathers' faces from the east, To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes, To people all the regions 'neath the sun— Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail.

It winds—this old forgotten cattle trail— Through valleys still and silent even now, Save when the yellow-breasted desert lark Cries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite, In quivering notes set in a minor key; The endless round of sunny days, of starry nights, The desert's blank immutability. The coyote's howl is heard at dark from some Low-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolf They yelp in concert to the far off stars, Or gnaw the bleached bones in savage rage That lie unburied by the grass-grown paths. The prairie dogs play sentinel by day And backward slips the badger to his den; The whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake, A staring buzzard floating in the blue, And, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,— Lost, always lost, and seeking evermore. All else is mute and dormant; vacantly The sun looks down, the days run idly on, The breezes whirl the dust, which eddying falls Smothering the records of the westward caravans, Where silent heaps of wreck and nameless graves Make milestones for the old Mackenzie Trail.

Across the Brazos, Colorado, through Concho's broad, fair valley, sweeping on By Abilene it climbs upon the plains, The Llano Estacado (beyond lie wastes Of alkali and hunger gaunt and death),— And here is lost in shifting rifts of sand. Anon it lingers by a hidden spring That bubbles joy into the wilderness; Its pathway trenched that distant mountain side, Now grown to gulches through torrential rain. De Vaca gathered pinons by the way, Long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill, Cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels; La Salle, the gentle Frenchman, crossed this course, And went to death and to a nameless grave. For ages and for ages through the past Comanches and Apaches from the north Came sweeping southward, searching for the sun, And charged in mimic combat on the sea. The scions of Montezuma's low-browed race Perhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree; Or sucked the cactus apples growing there. All these have passed, and passed the immigrants, Who bore the westward fever in their brain, The Norseman tang for roving in their veins; Who loved the plains as sailors love the sea, Braved danger, death, and found a resting place While traveling on the old Mackenzie Trail.

Brave old Mackenzie long has laid him down To rest beyond the trail that bears his name; A granite mountain makes his monument; The northers, moaning o'er the low divide, Go gently past his long deserted camps. No more his rangers guard the wild frontier, No more he leads them in the border fight. No more the mavericks, winding stream of horns To Kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songs And cries, the pistol's sharp report,—the free, Wild days in Texas by the Rio Grande. And some men say when dusky night shuts down, Dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star, One sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plain Hard by Mackenzie's trail; and keener ears Have heard from deep within the bordering hills The tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows, The rumble of a moving wagon train, Sometimes far echoes of a frontier song; Then sounds grow fainter, shadows troop away,— On westward, westward, as they in olden time Went rangeing o'er the old Mackenzie Trail. John A. Lomax.



THE SHEEP-HERDER[3]

ALL day across the sagebrush flat, Beneath the sun of June, My sheep they loaf and feed and bleat Their never changin' tune. And then, at night time, when they lay As quiet as a stone, I hear the gray wolf far away, "Alo-one!" he says, "Alo-one!"

A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! The tune the woollies sing; It's rasped my ears, it seems, for years, Though really just since Spring; And nothin', far as I can see Around the circle's sweep, But sky and plain, my dreams and me And them infernal sheep.

I've got one book—it's poetry— A bunch of pretty wrongs An Eastern lunger gave to me; He said 'twas "shepherd songs." But, though that poet sure is deep And has sweet things to say, He never seen a herd of sheep Or smelt them, anyway.

A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! My woollies greasy gray, An awful change has hit the range Since that old poet's day. For you're just silly, on'ry brutes And I look like distress, And my pipe ain't the kind that toots And there's no "shepherdess."

Yet 'way down home in Kansas State, Bliss Township, Section Five, There's one that's promised me to wait, The sweetest girl alive; That's why I salt my wages down And mend my clothes with strings, While others blow their pay in town For booze and other things.

A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! My Minnie, don't be sad; Next year we'll lease that splendid piece That corners on your dad. We'll drive to "literary," dear, The way we used to do And turn my lonely workin' here To happiness for you.

Suppose, down near that rattlers' den, While I sit here and dream, I'd spy a bunch of ugly men And hear a woman scream. Suppose I'd let my rifle shout And drop the men in rows, And then the woman should turn out— My Minnie!—just suppose.

A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! The tune would then be gay; There is, I mind, a parson kind Just forty miles away. Why, Eden would come back again, With sage and sheep corrals, And I could swing a singin' pen To write her "pastorals."

I pack a rifle on my arm And jump at flies that buzz; There's nothin' here to do me harm; I sometimes wish there was. If through that brush above the pool A red should creep—and creep— Wah! cut down on 'im!—Stop, you fool! That's nothin' but a sheep.

A-a! ma-a! ba-a!—Hell! Oh, sky and plain and bluff! Unless my mail comes up the trail I'm locoed, sure enough. What's that?—a dust-whiff near the butte Right where my last trail ran, A movin' speck, a—wagon! Hoot! Thank God! here comes a man. Charles Badger Clark, Jr.

[3] Only such cowboys as are in desperate need of employment ever become sheep-herders.



A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL

YES, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range, Mighty queerish, too, I tell you,—sich a racket fer a change; From a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps To the biled shirt o' the city and the other tony traps. Never seed sich herds o' people throwed together, every brand O' humanity, I reckon, in this big mountain land Rounded up right here in Denver, runnin' on new sort o' feed. Actin' restless an' oneasy, like they threatened to stampede.

Mighty curious to a rider comin' from the range, he feels What you'd call a lost sensation from sombrero clar to heels; Like a critter stray that drifted in a windstorm from its range To another run o' grazin' where the brands it sees are strange. Then I see a city herder, a policeman, don't you know, Sort o' think he's got men spotted an' is 'bout to make a throw Fer to catch me an' corral me fer a stray till he can talk On the wire an' tell the owner fer to come an' get his stock.

Yes, it's mighty strange an' funny fer a cowboy, as you say, Fer to hit a camp like this one, so unanimously gay; But I want to tell you, pardner, that a rider sich as me Isn't built fer feedin' on sich crazy jamboree. Every bone I got's a-achin', an' my feet as sore as if I had hit a bed o' cactus, an' my hinges is as stiff From a-hittin' these hot pavements as a feller's jints kin git,— 'Taint like holdin' down a broncho on the range, a little bit.

I'm hankerin', I tell you, fer to hit the trail an' run Like a crazy, locoed yearlin' from this big cloud-burst o' fun Back toward the cattle ranches, where a feller's breath comes free An' he wears the clothes that fits him, 'stead o' this slick toggery. Where his home is in the saddle, an' the heavens is his roof, An' his ever'day companions wears the hide an' cloven hoof, Where the beller of the cattle is the only sound he hears, An' he never thinks o' nothin' but his grub an' hoss an' steers. Anonymous.



THE OLD COWMAN

I RODE across a valley range I hadn't seen for years. The trail was all so spoilt and strange It nearly fetched the tears. I had to let ten fences down,— (The fussy lanes ran wrong) And each new line would make me frown And hum a mournin' song.

Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire! The nester brand is on the land; I reckon I'll retire. While progress toots her brassy horn And makes her motor buzz, I thank the Lord I wasn't born No later than I wuz!

'Twas good to live when all the sod, Without no fence nor fuss, Belonged in partnership to God, The Government and us. With skyline bounds from east to west And room to go and come, I loved my fellowman the best When he was scattered some.

Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! Close and closer cramps the wire! There's hardly play to back away And call a man a liar. Their house has locks on every door; Their land is in a crate. There ain't the plains of God no more, They're only real estate.

There's land where yet no ditchers dig Nor cranks experiment; It's only lovely, free and big And isn't worth a cent. I pray that them who come to spoil May wait till I am dead Before they foul that blessed soil With fence and cabbage head.

Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak! Far and farther crawls the wire! To crowd and pinch another inch Is all their heart's desire. The world is over-stocked with men, And some will see the day When each must keep his little pen, But I'll be far away.

When my old soul hunts range and rest Beyond the last divide, Just plant me in some stretch of West That's sunny, lone and wide. Let cattle rub my tombstone down And coyotes mourn their kin, Let hawses paw and tramp the moun',— But don't you fence it in!

Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! And they pen the land with wire. They figure fence and copper cents Where we laughed round the fire. Job cussed his birthday, night and morn In his old land of Uz, But I'm just glad I wasn't born No later than I wuz! Charles Badger Clark, Jr.



THE GILA MONSTER ROUTE

THE lingering sunset across the plain Kissed the rear-end door of an east-bound train, And shone on a passing track close by Where a ding-bat sat on a rotting tie.

He was ditched by a shock and a cruel fate. The con high-balled, and the manifest freight Pulled out on the stem behind the mail, And she hit the ball on a sanded rail.

As she pulled away in the falling light He could see the gleam of her red tail-light. Then the moon arose and the stars came out— He was ditched on the Gila Monster Route.

Nothing in sight but sand and space; No chance for a gink to feed his face; Not even a shack to beg for a lump, Or a hen-house to frisk for a single gump.

He gazed far out on the solitude; He drooped his head and began to brood; He thought of the time he lost his mate In a hostile burg on the Nickle Plate.

They had mooched the stem and threw their feet, And speared four-bits on which to eat; But deprived themselves of daily bread And shafted their coin for "dago red."

Down by the track in the jungle's glade, In the cool green grass, in the tules' shade, They shed their coats and ditched their shoes And tanked up full of that colored booze.

Then they took a flop with their skins plumb full, And they did not hear the harnessed bull, Till he shook them out of their boozy nap, With a husky voice and a loaded sap.

They were charged with "vag," for they had no kale, And the judge said, "Sixty days in jail." But the John had a bindle,—a worker's plea,— So they gave him a floater and set him free.

They had turned him up, but ditched his mate, So he grabbed the guts of an east-bound freight, He flung his form on a rusty rod, Till he heard the shack say, "Hit the sod!"

The John piled off, he was in the ditch, With two switch lamps and a rusty switch,— A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo On a hostile pike, without a show.

From away off somewhere in the dark Came the sharp, short notes of a coyote's bark. The bo looked round and quickly rose And shook the dust from his threadbare clothes.

Off in the west through the moonlit night He saw the gleam of a big head-light— An east-bound stock train hummed the rail; She was due at the switch to clear the mail.

As she drew up close, the head-end shack Threw the switch to the passenger track, The stock rolled in and off the main, And the line was clear for the west-bound train.

When she hove in sight far up the track, She was workin' steam, with her brake shoes slack, She hollered once at the whistle post, Then she flitted by like a frightened ghost.

He could hear the roar of the big six-wheel, And her driver's pound on the polished steel, And the screech of her flanges on the rail As she beat it west o'er the desert trail.

The John got busy and took the risk, He climbed aboard and began to frisk, He reached up high and began to feel For the end-door pin—then he cracked the seal.

'Twas a double-decked stock-car, filled with sheep, Old John crawled in and went to sleep. She whistled twice and high-balled out,— They were off, down the Gila Monster Route. L. F. Post and Glenn Norton.



THE CALL OF THE PLAINS

HO! wind of the far, far prairies! Free as the waves of the sea! Your voice is sweet as in alien street The cry of a friend to me! You bring me the breath of the prairies, Known in the days that are sped, The wild geese's cry and the blue, blue sky And the sailing clouds o'er head!

My eyes are weary with longing For a sight of the sage grass gray, For the dazzling light of a noontide bright And the joy of the open day! Oh, to hear once more the clanking Of the noisy cowboy's spur, And the south wind's kiss like a mild caress Making the grasses stir.

I dream of the wide, wide prairies Touched with their glistening sheen, The coyotes' cry and the wind-swept sky And the waving billows of green! And oh, for a night in the open Where no sound discordant mars, And the marvelous glow, when the sun is low, And the silence under the stars!

Ho, wind from the western prairies! Ho, voice from a far domain! I feel in your breath what I'll feel till death, The call of the plains again! The call of the Spirit of Freedom To the spirit of freedom in me; My heart leaps high with a jubilant cry And I answer in ecstasy! Ethel MacDiarmid.



WHERE THE GRIZZLY DWELLS[4]

I ADMIRE the artificial art of the East; But I love more the inimitable art of the West, Where nature's handiwork lies in virginal beauty. Amidst the hum of city life I saunter back to dreams of home. Astride the back of my trusty steed I wander away, losing myself In the foothills of the Rockies.

Away from human habitations, Up the rugged slopes, Through the timbered stretches, I hear the frightful cry of wolves And see a bear sneaking up behind.

Many nights ago, While herding a bunch of cattle During the round-up season, I lay upon the grass Looking at the mated stars; I wondered if a cowboy Could go to the Unknown Place, The Happy Hunting Ground, When this short life is over.

But, here or there, I shall always live In the land of mountain air Where the grizzly dwells And sage brush grows; Where mountain trout are not a few; In the land of the Bitterroot,— The Indian land,—Land of the Golden West. James Fox.

[4] Fox is a halfbreed Indian who sent me a lot of verse. Although he had never heard of Walt Whitman, these stanzas suggest that poet. The spelling and punctuation are mine.



A COWBOY TOAST

HERE'S to the passing cowboy, the plowman's pioneer; His home, the boundless mesa, he of any man the peer; Around his wide sombrero was stretched the rattler's hide, His bridle sporting conchos, his lasso at his side. All day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars, Kept vigil o'er thousands held by neither posts nor bars; With never a diversion in all the lonesome land, But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sage and sand.

Sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat; And prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat; The rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod Some Texas steer pursuing o'er the pathless waste of sod. With lasso, quirt, and 'colter the cowboy knew his skill; They pass with him to history and naught their place can fill; While he, bold broncho rider, ne'er conned a lesson page,— But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage.

And oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies! When lightning played and mocked him till blinded were his eyes; When raged the storm around him, and fear was in his heart Lest panic-stricken leaders might make the whole herd start. That meant a death for many, perhaps a wild stampede, When none could stem the fury of the cattle in the lead; Ah, then life seemed so little and death so very near,— With cattle, cattle, cattle, and darkness everywhere.

Then quaff with me a bumper of water, clear and pure, To the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e'er endure From the Llano Estacado to Dakota's distant sands, Where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands. Let us rear for him an altar in the Temple of the Brave, And weave of Texas grasses a garland for his grave; And offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done With cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun. James Barton Adams.



RIDIN' UP THE ROCKY TRAIL FROM TOWN

"Billy Leamont rode out of the town— Close at his shoulder rode Jack Lorell— Over the leagues of the prairies brown, Into the hills where the sun goes down— Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!

* * *

Billy Leamont looked down the dell— Dead below; him lay Jack Lorell— With his gun at his forehead he fired and fell, Then rode they two through the streets of hell— Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!" THE BALLAD OF BILLY LEAMONT.[5]

WE'RE the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men, But we had to come to town to get the mail. And we're ridin' home at daybreak—'cause the air is cooler then— All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail. Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin', All our toilets show a touch of disarray, For we found that City life is a constant round of strife And we aint the breed for shyin' from a fray.

Chant your warhoops, pardners, dear, while the east turns pale with fear And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun' For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!

We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede. From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights. We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites. So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin' 'Twasn't long till we had got where talkin' ends, And he et his ill-bred chat, with a sauce of derby hat, While my merry pardners entertained his friends.

Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news. Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down. We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for howlin' When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town.

Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves, Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight, Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law of six years' crop of calves And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night, There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange. And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds Still is useful in the language of the range.

Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats, For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown. We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation— Ee-Yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!

[5] This fragment is not included in Mr. Clark's poem.



THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT

HE reached the West in a palace car where the writers tell us the cowboys are, With the redskin bold and the centipede and the rattlesnake and the loco weed. He looked around for the Buckskin Joes and the things he'd seen in the Wild West shows— The cowgirls gay and the bronchos wild and the painted face of the Injun child. He listened close for the fierce war-whoop, and his pent-up spirits began to droop, And he wondered then if the hills and nooks held none of the sights of the story books.

He'd hoped he would see the marshal pot some bold bad man with a pistol shot, And entered a low saloon by chance, where the tenderfoot is supposed to dance While the cowboy shoots at his bootheels there and the smoke of powder begrims the air, But all was quiet as if he'd strayed to that silent spot where the dead are laid. Not even a faro game was seen, and none flaunted the long, long green. 'Twas a blow for him who had come in quest of a touch of the real wild woolly West.

He vainly sought for a bad cayuse and the swirl and swish of the flying noose, And the cowboy's yell as he roped a steer, but nothing of this fell on his ear. Not even a wide-brimmed hat he spied, but derbies flourished on every side, And the spurs and the "chaps" and the flannel shirts, the high-heeled boots and the guns and the quirts, The cowboy saddles and silver bits and fancy bridles and swell outfits He'd read about in the novels grim, were not on hand for the likes of him.

He peered about for a stagecoach old, and a miner-man with a bag of gold, And a burro train with its pack-loads which he'd read they tie with the diamond hitch. The rattler's whir and the coyote's wail ne'er sounded out as he hit the trail; And no one knew of a branding bee or a steer roundup that he longed to see. But the oldest settler named Six-Gun Sim rolled a cigarette and remarked to him: "The West hez gone to the East, my son, and it's only in tents sich things is done." E. A. Brinninstool.



A COWBOY ALONE WITH HIS CONSCIENCE

WHEN I ride into the mountains on my little broncho bird, Whar my ears are never pelted with the bawlin' o' the herd, An' a sort o' dreamy quiet hangs upon the western air, An' thar ain't no animation to be noticed anywhere; Then I sort o' feel oneasy, git a notion in my head I'm the only livin' mortal—everybody else is dead— An' I feel a queer sensation, rather skeery like, an' odd, When thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' God.

Every rabbit that I startle from its shaded restin' place, Seems a furry shaft o' silence shootin' into noiseless space, An' a rattlesnake a crawlin' through the rocks so old an' gray Helps along the ghostly feelin' in a rather startlin' way. Every breeze that dares to whisper does it with a bated breath, Every bush stands grim an' silent in a sort o' livin' death— Tell you what, a feller's feelin's give him many an icy prod, When thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' God.

Somehow allus git to thinkin' o' the error o' my ways, An' my memory goes wingin' back to childhood's happy days, When a mother, now a restin' in the grave so dark an' deep, Used to listen while I'd whisper, "Now I lay me down to sleep." Then a sort o' guilty feelin' gits a surgin' in my breast, An' I wonder how I'll stack up at the final judgment test, Conscience allus welts it to me with a mighty cuttin' rod, When thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' God.

Take the very meanest sinner that the nation ever saw, One that don't respect religion more'n he respects the law, One that never does an action that's commendable or good, An' immerse him fur a season out in Nature's solitude, An' the cog-wheels o' his conscience 'll be rattled out o' gear, More'n if he 'tended preachin' every Sunday in the year, Fur his sins 'ill come a ridin' through his cranium rough shod, When thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' God. James Barton Adams.



JUST A-RIDIN'!

OH, for me a horse and saddle Every day without a change; With the desert sun a-blazin' On a hundred miles o' range,

Just a-ridin', just a-ridin', Desert ripplin' in the sun, Mountains blue along the skyline,— I don't envy anyone.

When my feet are in the stirrups And my horse is on the bust; When his hoofs are flashin' lightnin' From a golden cloud o' dust; And the bawlin' of the cattle Is a-comin' down the wind,— Oh, a finer life than ridin' Would be mighty hard to find,

Just a-ridin', just a-ridin', Splittin' long cracks in the air, Stirrin' up a baby cyclone, Rootin' up the prickly pear.

I don't need no art exhibits When the sunset does his best, Paintin' everlastin' glories On the mountains of the west. And your operas look foolish When the night bird starts his tune And the desert's silver-mounted By the kisses of the moon,

Just a-ridin', just a-ridin', I don't envy kings nor czars When the coyotes down the valley Are a-singin' to the stars.

When my earthly trail is ended And my final bacon curled, And the last great round up's finished At the Home Ranch of the world, I don't want no harps or haloes, Robes or other dress-up things,— Let me ride the starry ranges On a pinto horse with wings,

Just a-ridin', just a-ridin', Splittin' chunks o' wintry air, With your feet froze to your stirrups And a snowdrift in your hair. (As sent by Elwood Adams, a Colorado cowpuncher.) See "Sun and Saddle Leather," by Charles Badger Clark, Jr.



THE END OF THE TRAIL

SOH, Bossie, soh! The water's handy heah, The grass is plenty neah, An' all the stars a-sparkle Bekaze we drive no mo'— We drive no mo'.

The long trail ends today,— The long trail ends today, The punchers go to play And all you weary cattle May sleep in peace for sure,— May sleep in peace for sure,— Sleep, sleep for sure.

The moon can't bite you heah, Nor punchers fright you heah. An' you-all will be beef befo' We need you any mo',— We need you any mo'! From Pocock's "Curley."



THE END

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



- Transcriber's notes: Obvious spelling/typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. Inconsistent spelling and inline hyphenation occurs across poems and songs and is retained. Introduction: original shows "Travelling" printed across a line break. Page 9: "Adios" appears once, "Adios" elsewhere. Page 68: "good-bye" appears once, "goodbye" elsewhere. Page 90: "sage-brush" appears once, "sagebrush" elsewhere. Page 115: original illegible. "You" in the author's transcription of the song in John Avery Lomax, Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads, 338, (Macmillan 1918), http://www.archive.org/details/cowboysongsother00lomarich (accessed March 29, 2007). Page 139: "hang-man" hyphenation retained. Page 183: "roundup" appears once, "round-up" elsewhere. -

THE END